


Two Knights Endgame

by doomcake



Series: rock you like a hurricane (30_ballads) [3]
Category: Katekyo Hitman Reborn!
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Medical Trauma, TYL-ish, Violence, injuries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-11-17
Updated: 2008-11-17
Packaged: 2018-11-05 18:57:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11019531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doomcake/pseuds/doomcake
Summary: Because there are still many things left that are worth protecting.





	Two Knights Endgame

**Author's Note:**

> 2017 NOTES:  
> I think this was one of the first KHR fics I wrote that wasn't actually gen (and it's not a super-strong indication of a pairing either, more like mostly-one-sided pining haha). Again, written for a prompt for [](http://30-ballads.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://30-ballads.livejournal.com/)**30_ballads** : "Blood Brothers" by Papa Roach.  
>   
>  Also, yes, I am aware of how unlikely some of the medical situations in this fic are. (Lol, funny thing, I actually have MERT certification now, so I'm MORE than aware!) Please keep in mind that this is fanfiction based on a shonen manga series, and all that implies as far as suspension of belief. ;)

  
_It was a dream and then hit me, reality struck  
And now my life is all shifty and it all moves fast  
Close to a buck 50 and we all stand strong  
In respect to the family in times of insanity  
And through words of profanity  
I describe our dysfunctional family  
Blood Brothers keep it real to the end  
Deeper than the thoughts you think, not a trend._  
—from Papa Roach's _Blood Brothers_  


 

 

Yamamoto stands at the entrance to Tsuna’s hospital room, a Styrofoam cup of hot coffee in each hand, and for a moment, he just watches the constant profile of the one person who has refused to leave Tsuna’s side. Gokudera stares down at the bed, and probably doesn’t even realize he’s doing so as the _beep beep beep_ of the heart monitor punctuates the choking silence. It isn’t hard to imagine that Gokudera’s trying to take responsibility for the problem at hand, that he’s stuck in the should-have, could-have, but _didn’t-do-it-right_ cycle. Yamamoto clears his throat and prepares a weak smile as he shuts the door behind him. Gokudera’s eyes are now on him, and– yes, he was stuck in that cycle of thinking. Now, he just looks worn and exhausted and frustrated.  
  
“Coffee?” He offers one to Gokudera, who all but snatches it out of his hand.  
  
It’s nothing personal, really – Yamamoto just lets his smile grow instead of taking offense. He watches, trying not to let the smile slip as he watches Gokudera toss back the coffee in one sip like it’s water – it was pretty hot; he hopes it didn’t burn Gokudera’s throat – and tosses the cup into the wastebasket next to the occupied bed.  
  
“You know,” Yamamoto says, after a breath – “sleep would work better.”  
  
Gokudera glares at him, but there isn’t much fight behind it. “Fuck off,” he snarls, and that too falls somewhat flat; there are dark-ringed bags under his eyes. He looks away, focusing back down at the sleeping face of their boss.  
  
The unspoken message is clear: Not moving until the Tenth wakes up. Put in more vulgar language than that, Yamamoto muses – this time, the smirk’s genuine – but the same message, nonetheless. And it’s not like Gokudera seems too pleased with him anyway, so…  
  
“The doctors say he’s stabilizing, and should be coming around pretty soon.”  
  
Gokudera’s shoulders tense, and there’s a slip of the frowning mask he tries so desperately to keep firmly plastered to his face – the glimmer of hope doesn’t go unnoticed.  
  
“Yeah? Well, then looks like I won’t have to wait too long.”  
  
Yamamoto laughs. “I guess not, then.” And he sits down in the seat on the other side of the bed.  
  
Ah, and there’s the look – the _what the hell do you think you’re doing_ one that Gokudera loves to use so often on him. Yamamoto ignores it, and looks over at Tsuna, his own mind going through what happened. They still don’t know who was behind the car bomb that almost claimed their boss, but once they do find out, Yamamoto doesn’t doubt there will be swift retribution. This isn’t the first attempt on Tsuna’s life in recent days, though it’s the closest their unknown enemies have come to succeeding thus far. It’s a bit worrisome, because Yamamoto can think of at least four or five different _famiglia_ who might want to end Tsuna’s life – and two of those are Vongola allies.  
  
This won’t be the last attempt, either. Yamamoto isn’t so foolish as to ignore the fact that the near-success of this particular attack will only bring more dangerous situations ahead. He will never admit it to anyone else, but he worries a great deal about the day when the strength of the Guardians won’t make a difference, when the bullet will slip through their tight defenses and find its way to the heart of the Vongola.  
  
“Don’t let your brain explode,” Gokudera’s voice suddenly says. Yamamoto blinks across the bed at him, confused for a moment before the Storm Guardian adds, “Might cause an aneurysm, thinking.”  
  
Yamamoto blinks again, and then suddenly laughs – a joke from Gokudera is rare enough. Shame, because sometimes the guy doesn’t know how hilarious he can be. Gokudera scowls more and crosses his arms with a frustrated growl.  
  
“What?”  
  
“Nothing,” Yamamoto replies. “It’s just… nothing.”  
  
  
  
  
  
It’s another day until Tsuna wakes up enough to speak lucidly. It’s a relief to everyone, and most especially, Gokudera – Yamamoto expects him to collapse at any time now that the urgent, uncertain worry is no longer there to keep his friend on his feet. But before Yamamoto can coax Gokudera back to the Vongola estate to get some rest, his phone vibrates in his pocket, and he curses as he realizes he’s forgotten to turn it off. He quickly excuses himself to go down the hall to the cell phone area in the hospital before he calls back the number on the screen.  
  
_‘Yamamoto – thank God. I thought I was going to have to send someone over there.’_  
  
“… Kusakabe?” Yamamoto blinks. This is rather unexpected.  
  
_‘There’s no time for chit-chat. Look, I have one piece of advice for you – keep the Nori family out of the area. They’re the ones who are trying to kill Tsuna.’_  
  
Yamamoto’s throat clenches, the smile completely gone. “Wait, what? Why would the Nori family–”  
  
_‘Working on it. Hey, I can’t talk long, but Kyo-san’s counting on you while he’s out of the area. Be sure you keep a close eye on the Tenth.’_  
  
“Kusakabe, what the hell do you mean that– ” The line goes dead, and Yamamoto curses as he snaps his cell shut. He isn’t sure what draws his attention to the entrance of the room, but he looks up and sees Gokudera standing there, fists clenching at his sides.  
  
He doesn’t have to ask how much Gokudera heard. The Storm Guardian turns on his heels, but Yamamoto already is across the room, fist bunching in the sleeve of Gokudera’s dress shirt. In that one glare, the one that dares Yamamoto to try and stop him – Yamamoto already knows what’s going to happen next, and he knows even more intimately that he can’t stop it. He sighs.  
  
There are no smiles, just, “Get some rest first – I’ll go with you.”  
  
“You can’t stop me from going now,” Gokudera snaps, “and I don’t need your goddamned help.”  
  
It doesn’t happen often, but Yamamoto feels his face falling into a serious expression, and he can’t seem to stop it. “You’re not going to turn this into a suicide mission – not on my watch, and not while the Tenth is still alive and breathing.”  
  
Gokudera’s teeth are clenching as though he’s going to spit out denials, but Yamamoto can see that he’s seriously weighing it. The resistance drains out of him – this is when Yamamoto knows the decision has been made.  
  
“Just don’t get in my way,” Gokudera mutters.  
  
Yamamoto just smiles, though there’s no joy behind it – there’s never been joy in taking lives.  
  
  
  
  
  
The smile fades as they wade into the thick of a battlefield, a day later – as promised – wrapped in Kevlar and the Sistema C.A.I. shields, loaded to the teeth with munitions and box weapons. The air fills with thick smoke from Gokudera’s explosives and the punctuated staccato of bullets. It’s two against an entire famiglia, but they have experience with both box weapons and gunfights on their side; they cut through the traitor famiglia’s members, parting their defenses in a sea of red and black as they make their way to the top of the chain of command. Pressing forward, never stopping, never looking back; Gokudera takes the front line out with dynamite and blocks incoming attacks with his Sistema C.A.I., and the blade of Yamamoto’s sword finds the stragglers.  
  
Yamamoto worries when he catches a glimpse of Gokudera’s face – it’s almost terrifying, to see him so deadly-calm, to see the way he walks as a man with one goal, heedless of the danger around him. Of course they have a goal at the end, but Yamamoto isn’t sure Gokudera has added “coming out alive” to the mission parameters, despite the presence of Gokudera’s Sistema C.A.I. – it isn’t bullet-proof, for one. He hopes they can finish up their work here quickly so that they can get out before Gokudera does something incredibly stupid in his anger.  
  
They’re ascending the staircase to the upper level of the Nori famiglia boss’ local estate, and Gokudera simply pulls out a gun and shoots – once, twice, and two more enemy Mafioso are down – as he doesn’t miss a step on his way down the hall. There’s no stopping him at this point; all Yamamoto can do is to ensure that they both come out of here in one piece.  
  
Gokudera shoots one of the oncoming attackers in the leg, and Yamamoto winces as he knows what’s going to come next. Gokudera calmly grabs his new victim by the collar of his shirt, bringing the shrieking man so close that they’re nearly face-to-face now.  
  
“Where the fuck is your boss?” Gokudera hisses; Yamamoto can barely hear him over the roar of fire surrounding them. “I need to have a little… _chat_ with him.”  
  
The man’s lips are trembling, but drawn into a tight, resolved line. “I-I’m not s-saying anything… t-to you Vongola _dogs_.”  
  
There’s a flash of silver, the only warning before the small _bang_ of an equally small firearm goes off almost point-blank. Yamamoto cries out in alarm and reaches for Gokudera, only to realize that the man he’s now holding is dead, and there is no sign of injury on the Storm Guardian. The neutral, _cold, fucking terrifying_ expression on Gokudera’s face is all that’s left.  
  
Neither says a word; Yamamoto simply swallows around a hard lump in his throat, and follows Gokudera as he continues down the hall. A small ambush around the corner doesn’t stop them, either – rapid fire from Gokudera’s skull weapon takes them down even before Yamamoto even gets there. The Nori family should have known of Gokudera’s growing reputation better; there aren’t many that can stand in the way of Vongola’s fearsome right-hand man and his notorious vengeful sense of justice.  
  
Gokudera, in such a state, is nigh unstoppable.  
  
An ornate door bars the end of this hallway, both guards already gunned down by Gokudera’s vicious onslaught. Yamamoto can barely suppress a sigh of relief that they’re _finally_ almost at their goal. There are no more obstacles as they both march forward.  
  
Gokudera kicks the door in without much preamble, and finds a sniveling man in a suit at an all-too-tidy desk. The man is quaking in his boots, but there’s a glint in his eyes as he meets their glares that tells Yamamoto he’s dangerously determined. The one thing that stands out to Yamamoto about the scene before them is that it’s _off_ , somehow. He isn’t sure how; he just knows that all isn’t right here.  
  
Gokudera clicks his tongue in annoyance. “You’re not Nori’s boss,” he says, taking several steps closer to the man. “Where is he? I’d like to have a word with him.”  
  
The man shrieks as Gokudera takes another step in his direction. “S-Stay away!” There’s a gun pointed in Gokudera’s direction, but it’s held in shaking hands, and Yamamoto doesn’t think the man really can aim well. Regardless, he prepares himself just in case things go awry.  
  
Gokudera ignores him, moves in, and kicks the gun away. He grabs this man by the collar, and points the skull’s mouth at his head with a threatening _click-whirr-hum_ as the skull charges with his spirit energy. The man screams as Gokudera shoots a warning bolt through his thigh.  
  
“I’m only going to ask you this one more time,” he growls, his voice so cold that it sends chills down Yamamoto’s spine. “Where is your fucking coward of a boss?”  
  
“I-Italy! He’s in Italy! For god’s sake, spare me, please!” the man squeals, trembling and cowering with his hands over his head. “I’m just the adjunct!”  
  
Gokudera snorts and rocks back on his heels, a look of dark amusement crossing his face. “And _you’re_ their right-hand man,” he mutters to himself, it seems. Yamamoto can see a thousand thoughts crossing Gokudera’s mind, and he doesn’t like a single one of them. “Jesus, how the fuck did you get to the Tenth, at your current strength?”  
  
The words make Yamamoto flinch – Gokudera’s back to blaming himself, and this mood he’s in is completely dangerous. The warning sirens in the back of Yamamoto’s mind are screaming at him to grab Gokudera and get the hell _out_ , because Gokudera isn’t in the right state of mind to figure out that something is awfully wrong here.  
  
The man’s frightened face suddenly shifts to something more deadly, and there’s a smirk there on still slightly-trembling lips. There’s a small bout of movement, and Gokudera realizes at the same time as Yamamoto that the gun wasn’t this man’s only weapon.  
  
Several things happen all at once.  
  
With widened eyes, Gokudera suddenly jumps toward Yamamoto in an effort to get them both out the door, in any way possible.  
  
“Fuck you, Vongola!” the man shrieks.  
  
There’s a _click_ , a flash of bright light, a hot rush of air driving Gokudera’s momentum so that he slams into Yamamoto, their eyes meeting in a brief moment of panic as flame bursts out from the room.  
  
He loses Gokudera’s grip once they clear the door – he reaches out again and misses, tossed back by an invisible force, and there’s an ear-popping roar just before something solid connects with his head and it’s lights out.  
  
  
  
Yamamoto wakes to violent coughing overriding the ringing in his ears, and with the burning in his chest, he realizes that the coughing is his own. It takes him a few moments of disoriented, confused blinking before he understands what he’s looking at through the cloud of dust. There’s half-burnt wallpaper lining the walls, blackened and broken ceiling above. His head is throbbing in sharp contrast to his heartbeat, and it takes him another moment to remember.  
  
_Enemy territory. Explosion. … Gokudera–!_  
  
He sits up, almost too fast – his head still throbs like hell, but he’ll live, and he doesn’t think he’s injured other than a handful of scrapes and bruises. Frantically looking around, Yamamoto locates several bodies strewn about the hallway, but only one of them has a mop of silver hair. In a panic, he rushes to his friend’s side, and he could swear later that his heart stops when he notices that Gokudera isn’t only unconscious, but he isn’t moving. _At all._  
  
The panic almost overrides common sense, but Yamamoto has been through enough battles now to keep a calm head in a tough situation. Check ABC’s, he recalls – airway, breathing, circulation. He’s got his cell phone out as he places an ear to Gokudera’s chest, and doesn’t hear anything. Two fingers against Gokudera’s neck, and there’s nothing there. Yamamoto tries desperately not to lose that hard-won calm as he watches Gokudera’s chest for any signs of breathing, and–  
  
_No, no, nononono – this isn’t happening!_  
  
–Gokudera isn’t. Yamamoto’s blood runs cold.  
  
He whips open his cell phone and dials for Vongola’s emergency medical team, because they’ll be the first to arrive in this situation anyway.  
  
_Location. Injured parties. Not breathing, no heartbeat. Give CPR – yes, he knows how. Don’t move the injured party. Bleeding? … Can’t tell around the Kevlar. No, there’s nobody else. Four minutes, got it._  
  
He tries to listen and respond as well as he can, as his numbed fingers pull the front of Gokudera’s dress shirt open, ignoring the buttons that hit his face as they pop off the fabric. There are several metal splotches on the Kevlar, wordless stories of things that could have been had Gokudera come alone. It’s hard not to suck in a breath of sympathy at how many of them there are – those will bruise, badly; Yamamoto is surprised that Gokudera didn’t even flinch, and then realizes that he shouldn’t be. This is _Gokudera_ he’s thinking about here.  
  
Removal of the Kevlar is harder than he thought it would be without moving Gokudera too much. There are mottled bruises and bright red welts already forming on his friend’s chest, and he’s worried that he’s only going to add to the injuries with CPR. But he doesn’t have a choice; Gokudera still isn’t breathing, and he doesn’t know how long it’s been since he’s drawn a breath. Tilting Gokudera’s chin upwards to open his airway, he leans in close just to make sure he isn’t mistaken.  
  
No breath tickles his ear.  
  
Taking a deep breath of his own, he straddles Gokudera’s hips and places his hands on Gokudera’s sternum. Pressing down hard and fast – 15 times, 10 seconds; he counts them out aloud – he ignores the discomfort in his wrists. He leans over and pinches Gokudera’s nose shut, and without hesitation, he presses his lips to Gokudera’s and breathes two full breaths into his mouth. Gokudera’s chest rises with each breath – _good_. Repeat.  
  
The second round of chest compressions, he feels something give in Gokudera’s chest and hears the faint _snap_ , and he winces. Can’t be helped; there’s still no breathing or heartbeat.  
  
The eighth time he breathes for Gokudera, Yamamoto realizes that the Italian’s lips are soft, warm – not that he should be noticing these things, but it does come to mind. There’s a lot of muscle in Gokudera’s chest, too; he didn’t realize just how much there was until he found himself trying to press life back into Gokudera’s heart through the layers of muscle. His shoulders are starting to ache from the exertion.  
  
_Come on, Gokudera – don’t give up on me!_  
  
He loses count after twenty-three. Gokudera still isn’t responding, and he feels a growing knot of panic in the pit of his stomach that he’s been trying to ignore. Instead, he forces himself to focus on anything but the fact that his friend still isn’t breathing – the way Gokudera’s hair spreads out behind his head like a halo, how peaceful Gokudera looks, how soft his lips are and how warm they might be if Gokudera was awake–  
  
His mind stops there. He can’t let himself lose focus that way; it’s just inappropriate, the timing is all wrong, and it’s not like he even has feelings like that–  
  
_You’re a dirty liar,_ a vindictive voice says in the back of his mind, but he ignores it.  
  
There are bruises across Gokudera’s abdomen, Yamamoto finally notices. They look ugly and serious, and it sends another jolt of fear through Yamamoto’s gut. But he’s too afraid that if he stops giving CPR now, Gokudera’s life will be in even more danger, so he doesn’t check the time to see how long it’s been since he’s called emergency services. Damn it, hasn’t it been at least four minutes? He’s starting to feel tired, his arms and wrists and shoulders and back aching with the strain. It seems like a goddamn lifetime.  
  
“Don’t you dare… give up on me… Gokudera Hayato!” he snarls, panting, a pause between each chest compression. “I won’t… let you!”  
  
In the middle of a second breath, Gokudera suddenly begins heaving; Yamamoto immediately pulls away and rolls Gokudera on his side, rubbing his friend’s back carefully as he vomits. He notices between pained heaves that Gokudera is _breathing, thank God, thankgodthankyouthankyou,_ but isn’t yet conscious–  
  
The vomit is tinged pink. Gokudera is far from out of danger yet. Yamamoto puts his fingers to Gokudera’s throat to check for a pulse, and finds it – thready, weak, too fast, but finally there. Once Gokudera’s done heaving, he pulls off his jacket and wipes Gokudera’s mouth with the sleeve of it as he rolls his friend on his back again. Gokudera still breathes, but irregularly with some difficulty. This time, Yamamoto begins taking stock of the injuries – aside from the heavy bruising all over Gokudera’s chest and abdomen, there’s a nasty slash across Gokudera’s hip that Yamamoto hadn’t noticed before. Blood from the wound has already soaked through the knee of Yamamoto’s pants. Hissing in frustration, he tears the sleeve off his jacket – Gokudera will be pissed; these weren’t cheap suits – and folds it up, pressing it against the tear in Gokudera’s pants above the wound.  
  
He puts the back of one hand on the side of Gokudera’s face, and the skin is cold to the touch. Another frustrated hiss, and he strips his jacket off and drapes it over the still-unconscious Italian. Gokudera moans softly, face contorting in a wince – Yamamoto tries hard not to sigh in relief at the sign of responsiveness, because there’s no way he can be relieved when Gokudera’s injuries could be even worse than he’s imagining them to be.  
  
_Goddamn it, where is that emergency team?_  
  
He picks up his phone to call them back again when he hears shouts from a short distance away. Grabbing for the gun he has stashed in his belt, he readies it just in case this isn’t the emergency team he’s hearing right now.  
  
There’s a rumbling overhead, and a little more debris comes tumbling from the ceiling in small puffs of dust clouds. A sick feeling curdles in Yamamoto’s gut; he worries that the structure itself might not be sound, but he’s afraid to move Gokudera at this point. Another shudder, more dust, and Yamamoto calls out loudly for help. A larger chunk of debris rains down on the ground near them, and Yamamoto knows that neither one of them will get out alive if he doesn’t get them both the hell out of here now.  
  
“Yamamoto!! I was worried about you guys to the extreme!!”  
  
Leading the medical team is Ryohei, _thank God_ , and Yamamoto finally allows himself some measure of relief. Another rumble from above, though, has him concerned that they don’t have time. Medics swarm around Yamamoto and Gokudera, pushing Yamamoto aside as they begin to work on his friend. Several questions are directed in Yamamoto’s direction, and he answers them numbly. _Breathing restarted by CPR. Still unresponsive. Vomit – pink. Don’t know how long he was unconscious before starting CPR._ He doesn’t like the looks on the medics’ faces as they assess Gokudera’s condition. The words they’re saying are doing nothing for the relief he feels that Gokudera is at least breathing; it’s making his stomach tie in worried knots, and he’s starting to feel vaguely ill.  
  
_My power wasn’t enough, was it._  
  
Another shudder goes through the building, and several workers glance up with concern.  
  
“I don’t think the building’s going to hold,” Yamamoto half-heartedly comments, finding breath harder to come by than it should be. He may be athletic, but even he is winded after forcing Gokudera’s body to keep working. “We need to get out of here.”  
  
They’re loading Gokudera onto a stretcher as he says it, and it looks like they’re all about ready to get the hell out of there. Ryohei, for once, doesn’t say a word as he pulls Yamamoto to his feet and they follow the medics on the way out. Five steps out of the building, and it begins to fall to pieces behind them – Ryohei has to drag Yamamoto to keep him from getting hit by nearby debris.  
  
After that, the ambulance ride is a blur. Yamamoto chooses not to listen as the medics talk about Gokudera’s injuries – _too calm, too clinical and cold_ – because it’s just easier to let himself drift. One of the medics finally squats down in front of him with a worried frown, and he realizes then that he’s got blood dribbling down his face from an injury in his scalp. He lets the medic tend to it without a word.  
  
An emergency blanket drifts across his shoulders, followed by a thick, broad hand – Ryohei, again, this time looking concerned.  
  
“You okay?” he asks.  
  
“Fine,” Yamamoto replies flatly.  
  
“You’re not the type to brood.”  
  
Yamamoto snorts; he’s definitely _not brooding._  
  
_… Liar._  
  
“And you’re not the type to be so subdued,” Yamamoto returns.  
  
Ryohei smiles mirthlessly, because this isn’t a time to get fired up – Gokudera’s life is still in danger, and it’s making them both feel morose and frustrated, because there’s nothing either one of them can do about it. And that’s what makes Yamamoto so _angry_ – he could have stopped Gokudera from going ( _no, no you couldn’t have_ ), he could have taken more precautions ( _you got him to wear the Kevlar, at the very least_ ), he could have made sure he’d taken the brunt of the blast instead of Gokudera ( _but then their positions would just be reversed, and Gokudera doesn’t need more reason to feel guilt right now_ ), he could have killed that goddamned Nori bastard before he had a chance to detonate the explosives he’d wired the room with ( _how the fuck could he have foreseen that?_ ), he could have–  
  
“You’re thinking extremely hard,” Ryohei comments dryly. “That’s not good for your brain, you know.”  
  
Yamamoto pulls the emergency blanket tighter around himself – that’s exactly what Gokudera had said, back in Tsuna’s hospital room. The words make him feel even more ill, and he glances past Ryohei over at Gokudera’s face, which is now half-covered with a breathing mask. A medic has one of Gokudera’s arms stretched out to the side, and is coating his upper ribs with iodine. They’re going to run a chest tube, Yamamoto realizes.  
  
His eyes are stinging, but damn it, _not going to cry_.  
  
“It’s okay,” Ryohei says, almost gently. “It’s going to be okay.”  
  
Yamamoto wants to badly to believe him, but can’t seem to let himself relax. The medic examining his forehead gives him a pitying glance, before offering him a round of painkillers for the headache. Yamamoto takes them, without another word. Several minutes pass, and Yamamoto suddenly feels extremely woozy.  
  
The last thought before he succumbs to the pleasant haze of drug-induced half-consciousness is, _goddamn you, Ryohei – you let them sedate me._  
  
  
  
  
  
Yamamoto wakes to a sterile white room, a fierce headache, and the sound of hushed, whispering voices. He’s curled on his side and it registers belatedly that he’s staring at a dividing curtain. If he looks closely enough, he can barely make out the shadows of a bed and the person in it, and a couple other figures standing over it. The crook of his elbow itches slightly, and he looks down to find the end of an IV line stuck into his skin there.  
  
It takes several moments for him to process why he would be in the hospital. Tsuna was the one injured, right? But then he remembers the surprise, anger, betrayal, and the subsequent quest for vengeance on which he followed Gokudera. Gun-fighting. Box weapons, explosions, a headache, Gokudera not breathing, _not breathing–_  
  
_Gokudera-kun?_ , spoken in an urgent whisper on the other side of the curtain, breaks through his thoughts like a slap across his face. He strains his ears, trying to listen to what’s being said, because _damn it, this is important._  
  
_Not doing well, he_ – Yamamoto can’t hear all of the softly-spoken words – _blood… out of surgery, will… still in ICU? … anything… be done?_  
  
Then he realized he recognized the voice asking the questions – _Tsuna_. He was in the same room now, but why was he in a hospital bed himself? Almost as if in reminder, his head throbbed, and he vaguely recalled that he’d taken a blow to the head as well. Maybe he’d suffered a mild concussion, or they’re just trying to make him sleep more.  
  
Yanking the IV line out of his elbow – which, as an afterthought, probably isn’t the best idea because it stings to hell – Yamamoto stands up and throws the curtain aside to see Tsuna propped up in bed, looking much better ( _except for the worry lines_ ) and Ryohei speaking with him.  
  
“Yamamoto!” Tsuna exclaims, surprise and worry and a hint of relief crossing his features all at once. “You’re awake!”  
  
“Which room is Gokudera in?” he demands, proud that he’s kept his usual even tone.  
  
Ryohei and Tsuna exchange worried looks. “He’s… he’s in surgery,” Tsuna hesitantly says, looking down at his hands.  
  
Yamamoto knows immediately, as soon as the words are out of Tsuna’s mouth, and as soon as his lips clamp down again in a thin, grim line. There’s something that Tsuna isn’t telling him. It isn’t good. He’s afraid to ask, afraid of what the answer will be, but if he doesn’t find out…  
  
“Will… will he be okay?” Yamamoto asks, almost numbly.  
  
Tsuna bites his lip, shifts uncomfortably and looks at Ryohei. That isn’t good news, either; there’s a painful clench of fear in Yamamoto’s chest, tightening like a band around his ribs and making it hard to breathe. Why won’t they tell him what’s wrong?  
  
“Since when can’t you tell _me_ the truth?” Yamamoto asks, voice thick.  
  
“Because it’s _Gokudera_ ,” Ryohei says, uncharacteristically quiet and serious.  
  
“Huh?” Yamamoto blinks. “And what’s that supposed to mean?” But he already knows the answer to his own question; he just doesn’t want to admit it. _Because he is a very precious person to you, and everyone knows it._  
  
Tsuna gives him a disparaging look, and Yamamoto’s anger calms. It’s not their fault that Gokudera’s hurt and _in surgery and not doing well and– and… Oh, God._ This is all _his_ fault, he thinks, because _he_ let Gokudera go on his little rampage, _he_ let Gokudera get himself in a stupid pinch, and let him be a rash idiot even with the Kevlar and the extra rest and the company. Yamamoto was nothing more than an enabler; look at where it landed Gokudera. The lump rising in his throat feels like it’s going to choke him any moment, just watch and he might let it.  
  
He sits unceremoniously in the empty chair next to Tsuna’s hospital bed with a shuddering sigh, elbows on knees and hands folded as he buries his eyes into them.  
  
“I’m such an idiot,” he whispers, a ghost of a laugh on his lips with it. “I _let_ him do this to himself.”  
  
A soft, warm hand lands on his, and he looks up to see Tsuna staring back at him with a sad smile. There’s a hint of guilt in the expression, which Yamamoto chooses to ignore. This is in no way Tsuna’s fault; the Tenth has to rely on the strength of his Guardians, and as far as Yamamoto’s concerned, two of them have already failed him recently.  
  
“This isn’t your fault, Yamamoto,” Tsuna says as if he’s reading Yamamoto’s mind, but Yamamoto doesn’t believe him. “This is something that happens because we’re Mafioso.”  
  
Yamamoto takes a deep breath in a near-vain attempt to reel in his emotions, nods for Tsuna’s sake, and then looks up at him seriously.  
  
“How bad is it, Tsuna? Really?” he asks.  
  
Tsuna’s smile falters and wavers. “It’s not good,” he replies carefully, “but not hopeless. There’s a good chance he’ll be just fine once he’s stabilized. This is actually his second surgery this afternoon. The doctor said there was a lot of internal bleeding…”  
  
_Goddamn it, that isn’t his fault, is it? Did he do CPR wrong and make it worse?_  
  
“… He’ll need a transfusion, most likely, but they’re a little short on B-type blood and Ryohei and I are both A-type.” As soon as Yamamoto hears this, he shoots Tsuna a sharp look. Tsuna doesn’t seem to notice at first, and keeps talking. “Once they’ve got his vitals under control, the doctor says that he should recover well, though he’ll be very sore for a while. He’s got a lot of broken ribs and internal contusions, but–… Yamamoto?”  
  
Yamamoto doesn’t realize he’s no longer paying attention until Tsuna says his name. “I can help,” he says, standing up, and there’s a little glimmer of shaky hope that manages to leak into his voice. “I-I have O-type blood; it should be compatible with his.”  
  
“Yamamoto…”  
  
“It’s the least I can do for my own failure,” Yamamoto insists, fist clenching.  
  
Tsuna looks him seriously, straight and evenly – it’s almost intimidating, especially since Yamamoto knows Tsuna’s true strength. But he has nothing to hide, and so he returns the stare, as evenly and determinedly as he can manage. There must be something in his eyes that Tsuna sees, because there’s a split second of surprise, and then a relieved smile spreading across Tsuna’s face.  
  
“I guess it can’t be helped, can it?” he says gently. “We’ll summon the nurse.”  
  
  
  
  
  
Secretly, Yamamoto wishes he had been able to see Gokudera during the blood-drawing procedure. He wants confirmation that Gokudera is still alive, still breathing, and that he’ll make it. But he’s still in surgery; the donated blood goes straight to the OR, out of Yamamoto’s grasp, and directly into Gokudera’s veins. Yamamoto is left sitting in the surgery waiting room feeling weary, stretched thin, but hopeful.  
  
Another two hours, after Tsuna convinces a nurse to let him at least sit in a wheelchair in the waiting room with Yamamoto, the surgeon finally comes out of the OR and approaches the Vongola. His scrubs are gruesomely spattered, and he looks exhausted – but triumphant.  
  
Gokudera’s resting in the recovery room; he’s out of immediate danger, but they will need to be cautious and monitor him for a few days before they can move him out of the ICU, the doctor explains seriously. They won’t know if there’s any lasting brain damage from the period of time where he wasn’t breathing. The doctor doesn’t say – doesn’t need to say how close of a call it was. He doesn’t need to explain that Gokudera was one lucky son of a bitch. Yamamoto had overheard one of the medics say it: she had never seen _anyone_ ’s heart start beating again from CPR alone.  
  
Gokudera is fucking _indestructible_. Or, so Yamamoto tries to tell himself. The ass has already survived this far, beat his odds a thousand times over. But Doubt is still a strong little devil in his chest.  
  
They don’t let him visit Gokudera until he’s stabilized and in the ICU. There are tubes and wires everywhere; Yamamoto recognizes a chest drain and the ventilator. The heart monitor gives signs of a steady beat, and it somehow relaxes Yamamoto as he takes vigil next to Gokudera’s bed. Tsuna visits, when he can convince the nurse on duty to wheel him to the ICU, but Tsuna’s still recovering, himself.  
  
Pleasantries are exchanged, but Yamamoto can tell Tsuna isn’t pleased by the way the boss’ lips are pursed in a thin line – angry about _what_ , Yamamoto isn’t sure. The truth is, he doesn’t feel like talking about it, about why Tsuna might be angry (at him, Gokudera, both, the situation, whatever); Tsuna has enough insight to figure that much out. For a while, at least.  
  
“Yamamoto, this isn’t your fault,” Tsuna says quietly; Yamamoto feels Tsuna’s eyes on him, but doesn’t return the gaze.  
  
“I know,” he whispers, but doesn’t believe it.  
  
Tsuna doesn’t call him out on it.  
  
After a few hours of quiet vigilance, Tsuna’s nurse returns to take him back to his room. Yamamoto loses track of time after that as he sits and simply watches Gokudera’s chest rise and fall in time with the pressurized hisses of the ventilator. Nurses are in and out, as well as the doctor – but none of them question the right of the Rain Guardian to stay in his seat, keeping his silent vigil with the occasional reach across to brush errant silver hairs out of Gokudera’s face. Day blurs into night, and back into day – the only sign of time’s passage outside that very room is the direction the sun’s rays filter into the sterile white room. He doesn’t realize how long he’s been sitting there until Tsuna comes back in and remarks on his state of appearance.  
  
“Yamamoto… weren’t you wearing that same outfit yesterday?” Tsuna asks, hesitantly.  
  
Yamamoto blinks in surprise; has it really been that long? Rubbing a hand behind his head, he smiles sheepishly and says, “Ah, I must have lost track of time.”  
  
Tsuna watches him with worry, but says nothing.  
  
The doctors wean Gokudera off the ventilator that afternoon, and are optimistic when he’s breathing well on his own. Yamamoto stays until Gokudera finally stirs the morning after, eyes clouded with pain and the haze of drugs. Looking around the room, slow realization setting in – frustration, weariness, pain, all flickering across his face.  
  
“Hey,” Yamamoto says with a smile – genuine, relieved, pleased – when he realizes that Gokudera is lucid and aware.  
  
Gokudera’s eyes lazily shift towards Yamamoto, and he grunts softly. “Still… alive, baseball… freak?” he says, voice hoarse and slurred.  
  
The smile still hasn’t left Yamamoto’s face. “Yeah,” he replies. “Sorry, can’t get rid of me just yet.”  
  
Gokudera gives a half-laugh, half-snort with a smile that quickly turns into a grimace as he tries to curl in on himself. “F-Fucking… _ow_.”  
  
Yamamoto tries not to hover too much as Gokudera reigns in the pain, breathing harshly a few times before he shoots a sharp glare at Yamamoto. Like it’s Yamamoto’s fault.  
  
_And maybe it is._  
  
“You… look like shit,” Gokudera says suddenly.  
  
It takes all of five seconds for Yamamoto to realize that Gokudera isn’t glaring at him for being there, but for how haggard he’s sure he looks. He brings out the sheepish smile again, rubbing the back of his head almost absently.  
  
“Do I?” he asks with a laugh – hollow.  
  
“You idiot,” Gokudera says, closing his eyes. “I don’t… need a fucking babysitter. Go… get some goddamned… sleep.”  
  
It is clear that Gokudera’s having trouble staying awake, so Yamamoto smiles and nods, waiting for him to finally drift off. When he does, Yamamoto allows himself a deep breath of relief and a small smile. Something stings his eyes, but he refuses to acknowledge it. There are far too many thoughts swarming in his mind, of what could have been, what still might be, what he would have done had things turned out much differently. What if he had been the one to be in the hospital bed instead? What if Gokudera had died – there or at the hospital? What if they had never received that call from Kusakabe regarding the Nori family? He didn’t think he cared that much, but now… _now…_  
  
They’ve been through far too much together, he realizes. Far too many trials, challenges, and they’ve survived every last test thrown in their faces. This is a whole different kind of game they’re playing now, and the stakes are far higher than Yamamoto would ever like to admit they are.  
  
He takes a hold of Gokudera’s hand, tensing slightly when Gokudera shifts but doesn’t wake, and presses it to his forehead.  
  
“Thank you,” he whispers. “Thank you for surviving.”  
  
  
  
  
_“The_ fuck _do you mean I can’t check myself out?!”_  
  
The shout comes from down the hallway, and it makes Yamamoto blink – though he knows he shouldn’t be surprised. Gokudera has been threatening to walk on out of the hospital for days now, but has never quite managed to make it further than down the hall before he passes out.  
  
A calm, but firm feminine voice answers him, but Yamamoto can’t hear the words being said from where he stands. He resists the urge to sigh and rub his forehead, and instead goes to rescue the poor nurse who’s being subjected to Gokudera’s regular arguments with the Vongola-run hospital’s authorities.  
  
“What the hell ever happened to patient autonomy?” Gokudera growls. “You can’t stop me from yanking out this god-forsaken IV and walking out this door right now!”  
  
Yamamoto arrives just as Gokudera half-storms, half-limps towards the door, the nurse behind him sputtering and trying to figure out how to convince her stubborn patient to _stay in bed_. And a second look at Gokudera confirmed the nurse’s fears in Yamamoto’s mind – though the Storm Guardian has markedly improved over the last several days, he still looks haggard and in pain, and Yamamoto doesn’t miss how harsh his breathing is at the small exertion.  
  
In that split second, Yamamoto makes a quick decision, and braces for the argument he knows is about to break out. He takes a step sideways, maneuvering so that his broad shoulders take up most of the space in the doorway. Gokudera doesn’t even notice him until he’s only steps away, and when he does, the scowl that scrunches up his face looks more like a tight grimace of pain. It makes Yamamoto feel even more firm in his resolve.  
  
“Get out of my way, baseball freak,” Gokudera says venomously, shoving against Yamamoto feebly once he’s close enough to do so.  
  
Yamamoto says nothing, but doesn’t budge, keeping his expression cold and firm. Can’t let it slip, even though he _hates_ how little strength Gokudera has in the gesture. There’s an irritated grunt coming from Gokudera as he shoves again, and then follows the furious glare – the one that says, _my pride is at stake here, you bastard_. It’s hard not to budge and just let him go his way, but Yamamoto knows – goddamn it, he _knows_ that Gokudera could use another few days in the hospital.  
  
Keeping his voice even – barely – he says, “If you don’t have the strength to push me out of your way, you don’t have the strength to be out of bed.”  
  
There’s a few beats in which Yamamoto isn’t entirely sure that Gokudera won’t try to cause him some serious harm, but a small wobble and a grimace of pain is all the warning Yamamoto has before Gokudera’s knees buckle out from under him. Yamamoto’s eyes widen, and he reaches to catch him without thinking; he barely manages to stop Gokudera from falling face-first onto the hard tile floor of the hospital room. There’s a tension in Gokudera’s shoulders that isn’t entirely from pain, and he scowls as he tries to push Yamamoto away.  
  
“Let go, damn it,” he snarls.  
  
“Not until you can stand on your own,” Yamamoto replies evenly, almost angrily. There must be enough anger bleeding into his voice, because Gokudera doesn’t say another word.  
  
He ignores Gokudera’s frustrated hisses as he pulls them both upright, one of Gokudera’s arms over his shoulder. He’s mindful of Gokudera’s broken ribs as he leads back over to the hospital bed. The nurse shoots him a relieved glance and nods over Gokudera’s head. By the time they maneuver Gokudera back on to the bed, he’s breathing harshly and there’s sweat beading on his forehead, eyes tightly shut as he tries to ride out the pain.  
  
Part of Yamamoto wants to reach out and hold his hand, try to offer moral support through it, but he’s so irritated at Gokudera’s stubborn insistence on getting himself in bigger trouble that he can’t seem to let himself offer a hand. It’s now that Yamamoto truly feels anger, because this is just so asinine on Gokudera’s part that he wants to shake the man.  
  
“Why the _fuck_ do you insist on being this way?” he snaps. Gokudera’s eyes crack open, and he manages to look surprised, even around the pain. “If you would just stay put, you wouldn’t have to put up with this much pain, and you’d heal a hell of a lot faster.”  
  
“B-But the Tenth needs–”  
  
“ _Bullshit._ ” Yamamoto leans in closer. “You are no good to him in your current condition – how the hell do you expect to protect him if you can barely move on your own?”  
  
A number of emotions flicker across Gokudera’s face – anger, frustration, and then he suddenly seems absolutely miserable.  
  
“I’m not useless,” Gokudera whispers, and it sends a shock of guilt through Yamamoto’s gut that immediately quells the ire.  
  
“No,” Yamamoto says with a sigh that relaxes his shoulders. “No, you’re not useless. Just temporarily out of commission.”  
  
The comment does seem to help – Gokudera looks a little less upset, but only a little. Yamamoto slumps in the chair next to the bed, suddenly feeling bone-deep weary. He stares up at the ceiling in silence, simply listening to Gokudera’s breathing beginning to even out, and to the nurse as she bustles about re-attaching IVs and machine sensors and tucking her patient back into bed, tongue clicking every so often in disapproval. She leaves once she’s satisfied, and then it’s truly quiet in the room.  
  
“Why are you still here?” Gokudera asks suddenly, breaking the silence. “The Tenth is still here, isn’t he? Why aren’t you with him?”  
  
“Ryohei’s still with Tsuna,” he replies, “and Tsuna checked out of the hospital yesterday, and is resting back in his quarters at the other end of the base. It’s not like he’s in serious danger at the moment – this entire facility is Vongola-run and owned, remember.”  
  
“That’s not what I meant.”  
  
Yamamoto’s eyes drift away from the ceiling to blink at Gokudera, who isn’t looking back at him. Sitting up, he puts his elbows on his knees and folds his hands together in front of him. Why is he still here?  
  
After a few beats, he finally says, “I guess… I just needed to make sure you were really okay.”  
  
There’s a derisive snort, and then, “You fucking sap – it’s not like I’m gonna die.”  
  
This time, it’s Yamamoto’s turn to snort, but his is much softer and less abrasive. “I suppose not,” he says, “but that’s only recent news.” The last part is a little quieter, and he hadn’t actually meant to say that out loud.  
  
Too late now – Gokudera’s eyes flip back over in his direction, and he looks a little… confused. Perhaps he’s taken the doctor’s words with a grain of salt, like it’s the doctor’s job to be overly cautious. But now he’s taking in this new information, and it isn’t matching the image of what happened in his mind. Gokudera finally comes to a conclusion – that much is clear, just watching him.  
  
“What aren’t you telling me?” he concedes.  
  
Yamamoto takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly to a count – like in meditation – and then thinks, _What will telling him change? Anything?_ But he’s afraid it might change much more.  
  
“You… you almost didn’t make it,” Yamamoto says solemnly, looking away. “You were in surgery for _hours_ , and they were having trouble stabilizing your vitals. The internal bleeding was bad enough for you to need a blood transfusion.” He carefully left out the part that he’d been the one to donate.  
  
Gokudera narrows his eyes; apparently he knows as much, but that clearly doesn’t matter. “But I’m fine now, so why the fuss?” he asks, suspiciously.  
  
This is the part Yamamoto doesn’t want to talk about, really – because he knows the direct answer to that question, and it’s something he isn’t comfortable sharing. “When I woke up, after that bastard tried to blow us up, you weren’t… you weren’t breathing, and your heart–”  
  
This brings to mind images he’d rather forget, of waking up to finding Gokudera not moving, not breathing, and the stark fear that shot through him then threatens to strike again now. He takes a deep breath – again, slowly exhaling to focus – before he makes a decision. He really doesn’t want to talk about that.  
  
“I don’t know if you understand what it’s like, having your friend dying and you feel like you can’t do _enough_ to stop it from happening,” he finally says.  
  
One of Gokudera’s eyebrows raises in a confused arch. “But the medics got there in time, right?”  
  
“…They almost didn’t.”  
  
_That_ makes Gokudera think a little more, and as he realizes exactly what Yamamoto is trying to say without actually _saying_ it – that he’d done CPR, the whole _press your lips against his and breathe for him_ ordeal and everything – he looks… like he wants to be angry. He’s fighting it, though – that’s one thing that did change about Gokudera over the years. Less of the _shoot first, ask questions later_ mindset, and more of the _wait, let’s talk this through_ finding its way slowly into his social methodology. It’s a good change, but now Yamamoto feels almost embarrassed. The silence between them now feels so awkward, it’s suffocating and painful.  
  
“ _Oh_ ,” Gokudera finally says, looking away. Yamamoto thinks it might be a trick of his eyes, but he’s pretty sure Gokudera’s ears are turning red.  
  
The awkward silence returns, and Yamamoto waits for Gokudera to explode in his face over it. The longer that neither of them speak, though, the more worried Yamamoto becomes. It isn’t like Gokudera to be so complacently silent, to take the news of something that might be considered a breach of pride for the self-declared Right Hand Man so easily. But it also gives Yamamoto a small glimmer of hope – of what, he isn’t sure, but it’s a warm sensation that he doesn’t want to let go of.  
  
Gokudera’s soft snort breaks the silence. “You didn’t have to do that,” he says, softly.  
  
“And you don’t have to keep punishing yourself over something that hasn’t happened yet,” Yamamoto replies, just as softly. Gokudera grimaces, and Yamamoto knows he struck a chord. “Tsuna still needs a Right Hand Man.”  
  
  
With a half-hearted scowl, Gokudera says, “Damn straight – can’t let my competition beat me out.”  
  
Yamamoto doesn’t miss the fact that he’s being teased, and he laughs. “Haha, well, you’d better rest up so you can take that position back from me.”  
  
Another snort, “ _Idiot_ ,” and there’s the tiniest hint of a smile tugging at the corner of Gokudera’s lips. It’s a sign of a slow return to normalcy, a reminder that Gokudera is still very much alive and will be just fine. And it’s a hint that maybe – just _maybe_ – there’s the acknowledgement of something more between them than there was before. Yamamoto finally lets his shoulders relax.  
  
Gokudera’s having trouble keeping his eyes open; the dose of painkillers he’s still on is significant, and Yamamoto takes this as his cue to leave.  
  
“Don’t try to check yourself out again, at least not until the doctor says it’s okay,” Yamamoto says softly, brushing his fingertips against Gokudera’s hand.  
  
Gokudera’s eyes flutter open again briefly, and he grunts. “Or you’ll… what?” he mumbles.  
  
“Or I’ll have to come babysit you some more,” Yamamoto replies with a smile. “At least, wait until I get back before you try anything monstrously stupid again.”  
  
“Fucking… mother hen.”  
  
Yamamoto laughs again, and lightly punches Gokudera’s shoulder. “Then do something about it.”  
  
Gokudera’s already asleep, but there’s a slight smile on his face that tells Yamamoto it’ll be okay. _It really will be okay._  
  
He smiles as he leaves the room, feeling the most hope he’s felt in a while.  
  
  
  
  
  
It’s another six months before the head of the Nori family faces justice, and this time, it’s Tsuna calling the shots. There’s one, two – _five_ total attempts to negotiate, five times Tsuna tried desperately to repair the relationship between the families. Yamamoto wonders if what he and Gokudera did – their raid – affected the talks, but Tsuna assures him that it makes no difference now.  
  
The last assassination attempt on Tsuna ends when the tenth boss of the Vongola shows what he is truly capable of. That confrontation doesn’t take more than a minute, and it happens before any of the Guardians can react. It’s all Tsuna, and this time, Nori’s leader doesn’t come out alive.  
  
_It’s strange, how much people can change in such a short time,_ Yamamoto muses later that night – after it’s all said and done, and they’re back at the base, safe and sound. He leans over the railing on the porch outside the above-ground meeting room, looking down over Namimori’s grounds and taking deep breaths of fresh air.  
  
He notices Gokudera’s presence only when he catches the scent of cigarette smoke on the air.  
  
“Hey!” he says, standing up straight and smiling. It’s a tight, but genuine grin, and he knows it.  
  
“Didn’t I tell you that thinking doesn’t suit you?” comes the gruff response.  
  
Yamamoto snorts as he turns around and rests his elbows on the ledge of the balcony, leaning back. “Haha, I guess you did.”  
  
“What’s done is done – can’t change it.”  
  
The smile falters, and then fades entirely. Yamamoto sighs. “I can’t be the only one wondering if it’s our fault,” he says, quietly.  
  
Gokudera’s next to him now, leaning over the balcony in a gruffer mimicry of Yamamoto’s earlier position. He takes a long drag on the cigarette, lets it out slowly in a gentle stream through his lips. “You heard what the Tenth said; didn’t matter what we did, they’d been gunnin’ for us a long time.”  
  
“We didn’t help.”  
  
“But we didn’t exacerbate the issue,” Gokudera corrects. It’s his turn to sigh – irritably, and he takes another drag on the cigarette, this one harsher and more agitated. Smoke curls around his face as he talks, “Look, I mean it – this isn’t worth dwelling on anymore.”  
  
Maybe it isn’t, but that doesn’t stop Yamamoto from saying, “What if there are others out there like the Nori? How do we know we’re even in the right here?”  
  
There’s a bark of mirthless laughter, and, “Fuck, this is getting too philosophical for you, isn’t it.” Yamamoto sees the sharp glance suddenly directed up at him out of the corner of his vision. “I thought you’d already figured out this wasn’t a game. _This_ is the mafia, idiot. Whether you want to be a part of it or not, you’re smack in the middle of it. We all are – and this is what it’s going to take to survive.”  
  
In a few moments of quiet, Yamamoto lets those words hang on the air, absorbing them as he looks up at the star-dotted sky. It makes him think of Tsuna, and the somber nature their young boss has developed of late. Gokudera takes another drag, the glow from the end of the cigarette glowing in his peripheral vision. _Is the killing, death – is all this worth it?_  
  
And in that one sideways glance Gokudera gives him, the way the cigarette dangles from his lips – warm, alive, like the rest of the man – the fact that he’s even standing there at all… Yamamoto thinks, _Yes. Yes, it is._  
  
_Because there are still many things left worth protecting._  
  
A burden feels like it’s lifted from his shoulders, and the smile this time is liberating, free of tension, and wholly genuine. The thank you is unspoken, but that’s how it always is between them. Implied, but never said. He slides his eyes sideways, catches Gokudera’s gaze as he flicks ashes from the butt over the edge of the balcony.  
  
“Are you sure you should be smoking that?” he suddenly blurts.  
  
“… Fucking _idiot_. Mind your own damn business.”  
  
But he’s smiling, too – and this, _this_ is what’s worth protecting.  
  
  
  
  
  
**_fin._**


End file.
